


Superposition

by gallifreyburning



Category: Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Don't say I didn't warn you, F/M, Narvin whump, also there's mention of Darkel/Valyes/Pandora, nonconsensual mindprobes, things don't really get physical but Pandora definitely isn't into respecting boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21675925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: At the end ofGallifrey 2.5: Imperiatrix,Narvin is injured while saving President Romana from a bomb, and is carted away for medical treatment just before Pandora takes control of Gallifrey. The next time we see him, inGallifrey 3.1: Fractures,he's abandoned his post as Coordinator of the CIA and is working as part of Romana's resistance against Pandora. This is a glimpse of what happened in between these two events: the moment Narvin realizes what happened in the Panopticon in his absence, and is forced to choose sides.
Relationships: Narvin (Doctor Who)/Pandora (Doctor Who)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	Superposition

“This is unnecessary, I’m perfectly fine! Stop buzzing that thing in my face.”

“Coordinator Narvin,” the surgeon replies with the longsuffering patience one cultivates when dealing with the upper echelons of Time Lord society, “you only feel well because of the pain-stop. The derma-mites are still repairing your burned arms, and I cannot discharge you from this facility until you are medically fit to return to duty.”

“I suppose it was quite a big explosion that I threw myself in front of,” he huffs, with ill-concealed pride. He doesn’t know exactly what madness seized him, that would make him risk his own life to save President Romana, but he’d put himself between her and the bomb without hesitation. 

_That sort of heroic act was a shrewd political move, done in front of dozens of vidcast cameras for all of Gallifrey to see. Nothing more to it_ , he decides as the surgeon continues to scan his head with her device, looking for signs of neural injury. 

Narvin tries to cross his arms in a show of impatience, but ends up hissing in pain as his burned arms come in contact with his singed chest. He settles for clenching his hands into defiant fists, settled beside him on the medi-dais that’s he’s sitting on. “You don’t understand the critical nature of what’s happening right now in the Panopticon. I must get back to make sure that President Romana is –”

“Imperiatrix Romana,” the surgeon corrects, shooting him a sharp glance. “Or perhaps it’s President Darkel now, I can’t keep up. The story changes every time one of the nurses brings an update. Now rest, or I’ll have you sedated and restrained.”

 _Imperiatrix?_ _President Darkel?!_ Narvin was injured less than a half span ago, what the devil has gone on in such a short period of time? Gallifrey’s politicians are like toddlers, in need of constant supervision. The Other only knows what will happen, if he doesn’t get back to the Panopticon in the next few microspans. The Daleks will probably show up and claim ancient right to rule the planet and the High Council will ratify the motion, or somesuch nonsense.

“You wouldn’t dare! I’ll have your job, if you do! I’m the Coordinator of the—”

“You’re patient number four-three-three delta, is what you are,” the surgeon snaps. “And you haven’t an ounce of authority here. You might be Rassilon himself inside the CIA Tower, but I’m the only god who exists in this medical station. Now stay put until you’re fully healed, or I’ll force you.”

Narvin’s list of arch-enemies is short, but this Time Lord has just landed at the top of it. Glowering at her - his most potent form of silent intimidation, the frown that sends his agents scurrying, he growls, “I demand a communicator, so I can organize a response from my agency. This is a matter of planetary security.” 

“I’ll see if the nurse can find one, and have it brought in immediately,” the surgeon replies in a tone that very much suggests she’ll do no such thing. She’s out of the room before he gets past his outraged sputter and into any coherent retort.

He’s on his feet and following her instantly. The medi-dais beeps in vexation behind him, and less than a microspan later he’s being manhandled by three burly nurses back into bed and injected with something that makes him very sleepy, very fast. 

When he wakes up, his burns are completely healed. The restraint field on the medi-dais hums steadily, immobilizing him from the neck down. He wiggles against it one limb at a time, testing for weak spots in the power circuit, and eventually manages to shift his pinky finger far enough to hit the call button on the side of the bed. A moment later, the door slides open and the surgeon walks through. 

Circles shadow her eyes, as if she hasn’t been sleeping well. _Good_. She doesn’t deserve to rest a wink, since she imprisoned him here without cause. 

“Coordinator,” she chirps, flicking a button on her datapad and surveying his vital signs. “You’re feeling better?”

“Less singed,” he replies tightly. “More apoplectic. How long have I been sedated?”

“A full day,” the surgeon replies. Her expression takes on a fearful edge; Narvin flatters himself to think it’s on account of his brewing fury.

“ _What?_ Derma-mites don't need so long to repair injuries. This is gross medical incompetence! I’ll have your certification for this! Let me out of this thing this instant.”

“I have orders from the Imperiatrix herself to keep you restrained, until she comes to visit personally.”

"Imperiatrix?" Narvin's chest tightens, an even more suffocating sensation than the restraining field. He had begun to think that keeping Romana in office was the best way to protect Gallifrey - especially with Darkel as the alternative. But if Romana has really gone and done it, declared herself dictator, then he couldn’t have been more wrong. "Romana wouldn’t have. I don’t believe it." 

"Coordinator," the surgeon says carefully, with a quick glance over her shoulder, "The Imperiateix isn't exactly Romana. She is, but she's also -" The door slides open with a clang, and a chancellery guardsman steps in. The surgeon clears her throat, without finishing whatever she was trying to say, and taps her chart once more, finishing her notes.

“She’s also what?” Narvin asks, his voice pitched a little higher in irritation and concern. “Romana is what?” 

“You’ll see,” the surgeon replies. Turning on her heel, she gives the guardsman a nod on the way out, along with a respectful, "Commander." 

The guard follows her into the corridor and the door shuts behind them, leaving Narvin helpless and alone and red-faced with fury. No one comes to see him again for hours, which is a blessing and a curse. He isn't given any more sedatives, but his empty stomach begins growling like a grumpy pig-bear. 

When the door opens next, someone completely unexpected and impossible walks in. 

Of course, Narvin recognizes Romana's first incarnation. He knows everything about the President, from her preferred tailor to every triple-first she got in her Academy courses. It's his business - and something of a moral imperative, he thinks - for him to know these sorts of things. It's what makes him good at his job: his attention to detail; his ability to ferret out information others want hidden; and his ability to turn every datapoint to the CIA's advantage. 

The puzzling thing about the existence of this dark-haired, younger Romana isn't _who_ , it's _how_. Was there a time disaster that resulted in degeneration? An injury that prompted her to regenerate, and vanity made her choose her younger form again ? His mind is racing, trying to patch in his knowledge gaps with the most likely explanations. 

"My dear Coordinator," she purrs, and suddenly he remembers that he's only wearing trousers. He'd cross his arms to cover his bare chest, if he could, but the restraining field keeps him prone on the medi-dais. Instead, he lifts his head to watch her as she comes to stand beside the bed, a peculiar expression on her face as she surveys him from head to toe. 

"Madam President," he replies, with as much dignity as he can muster while half-naked. "Not to be ungrateful for the thorough medical care I've received in this facility, but I'd rather like to know why you've ordered me held prisoner here. Did I offend you, by saving your life? Remind me not to be so generous and foolhardy in the future, won't you."

She watches him deliver his little angry speech like a hungry wolf watches a rabbit scurry through underbrush. After a heavy pause, her lips curl into a devilish grin. "You seem to have mistaken me for someone I'm not. Not anymore, at least."

He wants to roll his eyes, to sneer at Romana’s imperial airs, but his sense of self-preservation finally kicks in, and overrides his need to mouth off. "Are you referring to the Imperiatrix business?"

"I am _referring_ to the Romana business." She perches daintily on the edge of his bed, half-sitting as she surveys his bare chest again. His lungs constrict, his skin stinging in the stasis field. The sense of dread frothing in his gut surges into a tidal wave as she reaches out and runs a cold finger from his collarbone to his temple, tracing the lines of his neck and jaw with delicate care, like a surgeon plotting an incision. "I'm disappointed you don't recognize me. After all, we did spend several intimate days together."

Through her fingertip he feels a mental nudge, the brush of a powerful and ancient and horribly, horribly familiar consciousness. Suddenly he's swallowing bile, his body slipping into a visceral reaction that he doesn’t fully understand. He hasn’t ever touched Romana before, and certainly never had any reason for a psychic connection; even so, the thing she’s offering makes him want to retch, and crawl into a dark corner to hide. 

The sensation is novel, and dreadful.

The woman - not Romana, a realization slower in coming than it should have been - leans over, studying him closely, and his dread spikes into panic as her predatory look veers into hunger. _She’s going to kiss me,_ he thinks, frozen in fear. 

Instead, she does something worse: that psychic nudge comes again, more insistent, terrifyingly intimate. He'd squirm if he could, but beneath the restraint field he can only manage to turn his head, an ineffective gesture. Her fingernails scrape his temple, the contact unbroken.

He can’t escape. 

"Oh dear, Narvinectralonum, what did they do to you? They meddled with your memories, erased my presence from your mind. I'll have a word with Romana about that, the next time I visit her prison cell."

The psychic nudge suddenly becomes a sharp jab, penetrating his mental defenses whether he consents or not. His barriers are formidable, the psychic training in the CIA light-years beyond the basic fluff taught at the Academy, and Narvin excels at everything the CIA requires of him. But these powerful shields might as well be made of paper, because Pandora knows her way past them. She’s been here before, without his permission both times. Then, she took up residence; this time she simply probes, sending a tendril of herself into his mind, casting about for mementos she left behind. He's helpless, completely at her mercy, unable to summon even a cursory bulwark as she ransacks his mind.

He grunts sharply at the violation, at how easily it’s accomplished; he shakes his head again, wrenching his neck to evade her touch. The bile has formed a solid lump in his throat, sour and nauseating. His stomach heaves and he trembles, clammy sweat springing to his forehead. 

“Pandora,” he gasps. 

“So you do remember,” she says huskily, biting her bottom lip. Her fingers leave his temple, her consciousness withdrawing; his chest flutters up and down as he struggles to breathe properly. This unbearable vulnerability makes him want to pull in on himself, to fold into a point of nothingness and disappear. He wishes the nurses would return and sedate him again, if only provide some escape from this nightmare. "I did so enjoy being inside you. I think I might even have missed you. Have you missed me?"

How does he begin to reply to such a question?

At some point in the last few weeks, during the Pandora crisis, Romana must have ordered him mind-wiped. She’s the only one on Gallifrey with the authority to do such a thing to a CIA Coordinator. He can't recall the exact circumstances, although he can guess - the shape of it is like a shadow under the surface of a deep lake, circling ominously beneath him. 

That shadow was _her_ , Pandora, this ancient eldritch creature, she wormed her way into the depths of his consciousness, bringing darkness along. And then she deserted him, left him completely, but her shape still haunts the darkest nooks. He's suddenly exhausted, as if he hasn't slept in a week. He can practically feel the bruise-like circles beneath his eyes.

"Thankfully you weren't injured enough to regenerate, at least not yet. It gives us the opportunity to speak with your mind intact, before the Free Time virus gets hold of you.” Pandora cups his jaw and tips his head back and forth, studying his expression; he’d yank away from her touch again, except as long as he’s prisoner on this medi-dais, any such gesture would be futile. His left heart thumps arrhythmically, his right eye twitching with the effort of holding back a distressed whimper. She continues, “I'd rather you choose to serve me, instead of forcing your regeneration. I prefer your intelligence undiminished, your leadership of the CIA as sharp as it always has been."

Romana is apparently in a cell, and Pandora has somehow co-opted her first incarnation and dissolved Gallifrey's democracy, declaring herself Imperiatrix. This ancient horror is threatening to force-regenerate him into a Free Time slave if he doesn't swear his allegiance, and the allegiance of his Agency, to her dictatorship. This really is a nightmare, in every conceivable sense. 

Pandak’s fucking pantaloons, he can’t let the politicians on this planet out of his sight for a nanospan without inviting catastrophe, can he?

Romana might be a radically liberal do-gooder, but she was a far sight better than the prospect of Gallifrey under the thumb of a megalomaniacal dictator brought back from the dead. If his planet and his people are to survive Pandora, they’ll need an alternate figurehead to look to. They’ll need Romana. And Narvin can’t do her any good from inside a stasis field in this medical station. Getting to the CIA Tower, assessing the full extent of this crisis, finding allies to bring along with him when he frees Romana and organizes the resistance against Pandora, these must be the priority.

His mind racing, his voice thinner than he intends, he asks, "Is the chancellery guard with us, Madam Imperiatrix?" 

Her hungry expression warms into something a stone’s throw from pleasure, at his concession: _us_. "A few cowards fled their posts when I took control, but we're hunting them in the catacombs like the pig-rats they are. We'll have them in hand shortly."

"If you'll remove this stasis field, I'll contact my deputy at the Agency. Then we can assist in your efforts to collect the chancellery guard strays." He glances down at his prone body. 

"I originally chose you for your intelligence, you know; I’m pleased to find it undiminished, since I was forced out of your head," she replies, flicking a button on the side of the medi-dais. The field buzzes and then vanishes. In an effort to put space between himself and Pandora, he sits bolt upright so fast he ends up dizzy. Listing sideways, he leans straight into her arms; she catches him, hands icy on his chest and arm. 

“Pardon me, Imperiatrix,” he mumbles, trying to pull away. Her grip on his bicep tightens like a vise, the fingernails on her other hand trailing across his chest as that wolfish expression slips back onto her face. “I - uh - I really do feel fine, there isn’t a need -”

“Pardon you? I don’t think I shall. Not without a proper apology, Coordinator.” Her breath smells of swamp-mint and, somehow, dust. Her blue eyes are the exact same shade as Romana’s, but devoid of the other woman’s natural grace and empathy. The creature currently thumbing his right nipple is a living embodiment of hunger, obviously intent on making up for her years of non-corporeal torment in every way she sees fit. "In fact, I'd like that apology right now." 

She glances at the medi-dais and nudges his chest, fingernails digging into skin. In the arms of a monster that has already violated him more than once, Narvin makes a nauseating calculation, weighing his own needs against the needs of Gallifrey. Where are the limits of his submission, in the pursuit of his long-term goals? 

“Madam, I am sorry.” He gently takes her wrist and lifts her hand from his chest. “I must return to the Agency, to deal with these security issues you brought up. I can’t rest until I know you’re safe.”

“How annoyingly gallant,” she says, arching an eyebrow. He gets the distinct feeling that she hears the thread of fear in his voice, and finds it satisfactory. “Valyes and Darkel were both ever-so eager to show their loyalty in every way I required.” A pause, her tongue touching her bottom lip. “Several times, in fact.”

“Yes, well, neither of them is particularly known for their professionalism. I don’t doubt they put pleasure before duty,” Narvin replies, managing a dour tone through the lump still stuck in his throat. His imagination unhelpfully conjures a tableau of Valyes and Darkel and several acts of loyalty they might have performed; he shoves the image back into a dark corner and wills it to nonexistence.

Pandora laughs, a sudden and genuine sound that makes him start. “Pleasure, duty, aren’t they the same? But there is something to be said for delayed gratification, I suppose, and for the satisfaction of taking something at one’s leisure.” 

_Taking._

As he stares into her frosty blue eyes, Narvin silently vows never again to let Pandora take anything from him without his permission. Rassilon help him, he might rather die, if it came to it.

“Imperiatrix,” he manages, “allow me to devote my Agency to finishing off the threat from these rogue chancellery guardsmen, and I’ll personally deliver a report of my success. If you choose to receive my report in private, I … wouldn’t object.”

“Anticipation,” she hums, tilting her head as she stares at his lips. But she steps back, releasing him completely, and his body trembles in relief, in spite of his best efforts to keep still. She notices, and grins. “Very well. You are free to leave the medical station and return to the CIA Tower, but I expect that report on my desk, and you in my office, within the day. Understood?”

“Yes, madam,” he says, bowing his head a fraction. 

"I appreciate your professionalism, my dear Coordinator." She lifts her chin. "And I look forward to unwrapping the presents you’ll bring the next time we meet.” 

With that, Pandora sweeps out of the room. 

Narvin swings his legs off the side of the bed and grips the mattress hard, something like a whimper escaping his throat. Eyes closed, he takes a slow breath and begins the process of walling off his most problematic, panicky thoughts. Unconsciously rubbing his chest where she touched him, he takes another moment to siphon out the unhelpful cocktail of adrenaline and fear-related hormones swirling through his body. 

By the time he pulls on his tattered CIA robe, burnt from the explosion in the Panopticon when he risked his life for Romana, his legs are steady and his thoughts are clear. He has less than a day to find allies - maybe some of his agents in the CIA, maybe some of the Chancellery Guard like Hallan, and maybe even Leela if she survived this catastrophe. Then he can get to a place of relative physical safety, to begin the real work of freeing the President and overthrowing Pandora. There's simply no room for personal feelings - not fear or hurt or worry - until after the job is done. 


End file.
